


Ghosts of Christmas Present

by RogueTranslator



Series: All I Want for Christmas Is You [2]
Category: Hollyoaks
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Dreams, Dublin (City), Loneliness, M/M, McDean, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21852868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueTranslator/pseuds/RogueTranslator
Summary: On Christmas Day in Dublin, Craig is overwhelmed by his longing for John Paul.This takes place on 25 December 2007.
Relationships: Craig Dean/John Paul McQueen
Series: All I Want for Christmas Is You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571545
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	Ghosts of Christmas Present

I.

_John Paul and I can spend Christmas together in Dublin. I heard the city’s a ghost town on Christmas Day; it’ll be ours to explore. We can walk over the Liffey and have the entire bridge to ourselves. Head back home to an empty flat: all the housemates home for the holidays. Just the two of us, like it should be. John Paul and I, all we need is each other._

* * *

“Here you are.” Danielle rubbed her palm into Craig’s upper back. “What’re you standing out in the cold for?”

Craig glanced at her along the line of the iron railing and forced a smile. “I just needed some fresh air.”

“Oh, right. They’re a lot, aren’t they?” She pressed her shoulder into his in solidarity.

“No, no. Your folks are fine. Seriously, compared to my crazy family, they’re easy.”

“It’s not Aidan, is it? Because I know he can come off a bit…weird.”

“Nah.” Craig looked across the street at the empty schoolyard and gripped the railing more tightly. “He’s just a normal teenage boy. No one’s a social genius at seventeen, are they?”

“And you’re older and wiser at nineteen, eh?”

Craig flashed her an impish smile. “Well, I’m definitely older.”

“You want to—” Danielle canted her chin towards the front door to the house. Her features looked beautiful in the fading daylight.

“I’ll come back in in a few minutes. I’m just thinking about something.” Craig fingered the bracelet that dangled next to his watch.

She peered into his eyes. “Is everything alright? That sounds a bit ominous, if I’m being honest.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I’m thinking about my family, is all.” Two lies, Craig thought. Well, he’d had a lot of practice.

“Of course. It’s your first Christmas away from them, isn’t it?” She leaned in and gave him a hug that he reluctantly reciprocated. “I still don’t get why you didn’t want to go home.”

“What, aren’t you glad that I’m here?”

“I am, but like I said, I didn’t mind going back with you. I mean, we can see my family whenever we want; they live here in Dublin.”

Craig shrugged. “They’ve got a lot going on. I’d just be in the way.”

“Okay,” she said, unconvinced.

“I’ll meet you in there,” he said. It came out peremptory, impatient: he’d have to lie again to mollify her. “I want to ring my mum; I got her answerphone this morning.”

Danielle stepped back, her face clouded with doubt. It was the same expression he’d induced in Sarah and John Paul for months on end. Craig felt a bilious surge of self-hatred in his gut.

“It’ll be dark soon.” She made her way to the doorstep and looked back at him. “We usually have Christmas dinner at four.”

“I won’t be long,” Craig said to her back. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and held it out in front of himself, in case she was watching him through the front window.

Had it really been more than three months since the airport? Craig looked at the playground on the other side of the street and gripped his phone tightly. It all felt like a daze now: landing in Dublin alone; queueing at the ticket counter to return to Liverpool, only to bottle it at the last moment; throwing himself into his coursework; meeting and charming Danielle a few weeks in: anything to dull the ache of John Paul’s absence. He looked down at the screen and moved through the list of names, stopping at the one that was the end of everything for him—the sea to which all the rivers of his mind flowed.

_Merry Xmas. miss u. luv 2 cu in Dublin. X._

Craig stared down at the blinking cursor, feeling his eyes growing hot, stinging. He wiped the sleeve of his cardigan to his face and gently tapped his thumb to the send button several times before finally pressing it.

For a few seconds, as the name “John Paul” flitted away with the phone’s animated envelope, Craig felt an effulgent lightness. Seeing John Paul’s name in motion, knowing that right now, across the sea, he was feeling Craig’s touch with the vibration of his mobile: it was as if a scab were flaking from a wound he’d thought could never heal. The months of silence fell away; Craig watched his mobile intently, hoping that John Paul was missing him too—that he had been waiting all this time to run back to him. Surely, his response would be coming any moment now.

Craig waited, watching the dangling swings in the schoolyard, until it was 4:10 and the sun had set. He had to head inside. Danielle would be looking for him soon.

 _He’s busy with family,_ Craig thought. _Probably left his phone in his room. He’ll text me when he gets in. Before going to sleep, definitely._

It was an idle hope, he knew, but still hope. Craig shrugged, patted his face with his sleeve again, and jogged back to the front door.

II.

_It’s not like we have to spend Christmas away from home. We’d be doing it because that’s what makes us happiest. I think if we went home again, they’d welcome us with open arms. We didn’t do anything wrong—all we did was fall in love. Maybe do Christmas morning at my house; Christmas dinner at his. Being a couple’s about compromise, after all. Especially when it comes to our mad families._

* * *

Craig padded down the hallway and checked his mobile one last time. From the record player in the lounge, Eva Cassidy trickled up the corridor, soft and dulcet. He took a breath, composed his visage, and entered Danielle’s parents’ kitchen.

“There you are, love,” said her mother. She was sliding a casserole dish out of the oven. “Dani was about ready to organise a search party.”

“Ignore her,” Danielle said, from the dining room. She walked back into the kitchen, both hands encased in oven mitts, and patted Craig’s shoulder. “Did you get hold of your mum?”

Craig pinched his brow in confusion, then remembered. “Yeah, yeah I did. She’s okay. Wishes I was there, of course.”

“Every parent’s going to want their child home for Christmas.” Her father set his wine glass on the worktop. “Need a hand with that, dearest?”

She breezed past him. “No, I have it. Tell Aidan to come down, will you?”

“Aidan!” Her father sauntered to the entryway and barked up the foot of the stairs. “Get out of your cave; we’re dishing up!” He gave Craig a gesture of bemusement. “Were you ever a gamer, Craig? I swear, my son doesn’t do anything else these days. No friends, no proper hobbies—”

“Dad!” Danielle protested.

“Er, I play now and again. I brought my Xbox with me when I moved here. Don’t have as much time to play with uni and that, though I might get back into it over the holiday.”

“There are better things you could do with your time, surely? Think of all the Irish literature you could be getting stuck into instead.”

“Don’t bother, Craig.” Aidan loped down the stairs and brushed past his father without making eye contact. “He still thinks the fax machine is a new piece of technology.”

Craig laughed awkwardly as Danielle’s father and brother walked to the kitchen. She turned to him and chuckled.

“Sorry about my family,” she said. “You’d think they could take a break from embarrassing me for one day.”

“Nah, I like them.” He stroked her back and smiled. “Your dad’s like, an English professor from a film. And your brother reminds me of myself when I was his age.”

“What, all of two years ago?”

“I wasn’t always this sexy and confident,” Craig japed, running his fingers through his hair.

“Or humble.”

Craig shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“Let’s go through,” Danielle said, and kissed his cheek.

At the table, Craig served himself modest portions of each dish. Danielle’s mother overfilled his wine glass and giggled, to which her father directed a look of faint annoyance. During the invocation of grace, whilst the other three had their eyes closed and heads bowed, Craig met Aidan’s eyes and quirked his lips in silent camaraderie.

“So, Craig,” her mother began. “Do you like it here in Dublin?”

“Yeah, it’s an awesome city. So much history.” He sawed off a piece of roast duck. “You meet all sorts of people, too.”

“You don’t have to dress it up.” Aidan stabbed his fork into one of the potatoes and twirled it around on his plate. “We all know it sucks here. Can’t wait to get out.”

Danielle put down her glass. “Uh, mam asked him, not you.”

“You’re from London, Craig?” her father asked.

“No, Chester.”

“You have a southern accent, though,” he pointed out.

“My dad’s a Londoner. We lived there for a while before moving up north. I don’t remember much.”

“I’d even live in Chester over here,” Aidan grumbled.

“And what do you know about Chester?” Danielle’s father hit his knife to the edge of his plate with a sharp clink. “Just be quiet and eat your food.”

“Dearest,” her mother said, but drank from her wine glass instead of saying anything more. The table lapsed into a minute of strained quiet, alleviated only by the tinkling of cutlery and Eva Cassidy’s warbling from the lounge.

“Er—so, what have you been playing lately?” Craig said, finally.

Aidan looked up. “All kinds of stuff.”

Craig rubbed his neck. “Which genres are you into?”

“RTS, shooters, MMOs, mostly.”

“Oh yeah? Which MMO?”

“The biggest one,” Aidan said conspiratorially.

Craig smirked. “Ah, right.”

Her mother giggled again. “It’s like they’re speaking argot.”

“I don’t get it either.” Danielle smiled at Craig and sipped her wine.

“Which shooters?” Craig continued.

“Mostly ones on PC. You simply can’t compare mouse and keyboard to using a controller. I’m on a server for _Mars War_ ; that’s the one I play most often.”

Craig nodded and looked down at his half-eaten meal. “Yeah, I used to play that one a lot. With this one mate of mine.”

“Used to, huh? Did you give up when you came here?”

“No.” Craig took a deep breath and returned his gaze to Aidan. “He did. I wanted to keep going.”

Aidan shrugged. “You can play on my server if you want. As long as you aren’t a scrub.”

“Thanks,” Craig said. He lay his fork on the tablecloth, feeling desolated and utterly devoid of appetite. As if fulfilling a prophecy, the music stopped at the same time as the conversation.

“Oh.” Danielle’s mother turned to her. “Sweetheart, go and put another record on. One of the Christmas ones. I stacked them next to the gramophone.”

Danielle walked to the lounge and returned Eva Cassidy to her sleeve. Craig watched her through the wide doorway as she hunched over the record player, flipping through the vinyl, her straw-blonde hair glowing in the soft light from the fireplace. When she selected a record and placed it on the turntable, her hands delicate and focused, Craig excused himself and walked to the front hallway.

“Where’s Craig?” he heard her say, once she’d returned to the dining room.

There was nothing on his phone yet; it had been the better part of an hour.

“Oh.” She was behind him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” He turned around and stuffed his mobile back into his pocket. “Actually, I have to go.”

She blinked and smiled. Then, when she realised he wasn’t joking, her jaw dropped.

“Craig, we’re in the middle of Christmas dinner.”

“I know. But it’s an emergency.”

“What?” She stepped forward and followed him to the door. “What’s happened? Is it your family? Is everyone alright?”

“I’ll explain it all later,” Craig said. “I promise.” He grabbed his coat from the hatstand and kissed her cheek.

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s fine. I might have to fly back soon. Will you make my excuses to your folks? I just—I really have to go.”

“Of course.” She leaned against the threshold as he walked out onto the front step. Craig kissed her cheek again, then adjusted the crooked wreath on the door. “Text me.”

“I will,” Craig said, and waved from the front gate. “I love you.”

He’d never promised to not lie to her.

III.

_If we’re on our own, though, we’ll have to do it all ourselves. I’d love to cook a Christmas meal with him. Two dishes, maybe, one for each of us? No need to push the boat out when it’s just us in our tiny kitchen. He can ring Myra, have her talk him through cooking up her sausage casserole; I’ll make a Christmas cake. We’ll eat with the rain and hail falling in waves outside, drink most of the Guinness in the fridge, tilt into each other during the washing up. He’ll wind me up with fruitcake jokes and I’ll kiss him quiet._

* * *

Above the murky clouds, the moonlight was weak and scattered, illuminating nothing. All of the light that guided Craig’s path was supplied by the lambent twinkling of the decorations in Drumcondra’s front gardens and the occasional streetlamp. The fine mist that hung in the air portended rain. Craig donned the hood of his coat and quickened his pace, hoping to reach the Luas stop on O’Connell Street before the skies opened up. He’d forgotten his umbrella at Danielle’s parents’ house.

_Did I really just do that?_

Craig gritted his teeth. On the back of a lie, he’d walked out of his girlfriend’s childhood home partway through the Christmas meal, without even saying goodbye to the rest of her family. All because of memories of things past and anguish over what should have been. By this point, it would be fair to say that his obsession with John Paul was making a mess of his life.

_I have to sort this._

Craig snorted. “How?” he asked aloud. His voice, though only a mutter, carried farther than he’d expected in the deserted street, and he was glad for the absence of other people.

He crossed the bridge over the canal; after a few intersections, the street began to widen. Because of the dense clouds, it was a warm night for December, and Craig didn’t mind the walk. It wasn’t helping to clear his head, notwithstanding the cliché—rather, his mind was simply making more space for thoughts of John Paul. What would he think about what Craig had just done? Would he find it romantic? Irresponsible? Distressing? Would he hate him for going with another girl? What was he doing right then? Having Christmas dinner with his enormous, raucous, dysfunctional family, more than likely. Had he seen his text? Had he smiled in secret—they both knew how nosy the other McQueens were—and thought about what to write back? Had he grimaced and deleted it immediately?

Craig stopped in the middle of the pavement, willing his thoughts to stillness. He’d known he was conjuring up ghosts of the past earlier when he’d sent John Paul that text, letting flow the flood of memories and crushed dreams that was now bearing down on him. All the same, it was more than he’d bargained for. It was a lucky thing that Christmas would be over in six hours. Something about these thoughts, on this day, threatened to overwhelm him.

He’d made good time, Craig thought, as he looked around: in only fifteen minutes he’d reached the beginning of Parnell Street, where the flats of the inner suburbs began to yield to the gaudy and glittering signage of ethnic restaurants. The smell of grease and cabbage and curry wafted by; Craig noted with approval that most of the businesses were open, despite it being Christmas Day. He’d skipped lunch in preparation for the meal with Danielle’s family, and losing his appetite after only a few bites at their table meant that he was famished now. His stomach growled as he stepped into one of the Chinese restaurants he’d been to before.

He leaned against the counter with a menu and ordered spring rolls, deep fried chicken with chili and peanuts, prawn chow mein, and white rice. There wasn’t all that much in the fridge—he’d planned on staying the night with Danielle—and he didn’t feel like leaving the flat tomorrow. Craig drummed his fingers to his thigh and looked around the restaurant as he waited. It was cosy, with the fairy lights festooning the windows and lanterns hanging here and there from the ceiling, and nearly full of patrons. This last observation surprised him, until he realised, with a chew of his lip, that he was another person alone in the city on Christmas.

“Here you are,” said the server, and she read the order back to him. Craig nodded and picked up the takeaway bag. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” Craig mumbled, before sliding from the stool and walking out.

It was only a few blocks to the Luas stop. Craig hurried down the side street, clutching the hot plastic bag to his chest; it was raining now. When he emerged at O’Connell Street and crossed over to the stop, he was heartened to see about half a dozen people waiting, most of them huddled under umbrellas in the absence of a shelter. It couldn’t be too long until the next one came.

Craig angled his head towards the sound of music, then scowled when he recognised the song. From a corner shop on the western side of the avenue, a radio was playing “All I Want for Christmas Is You” loudly enough for him to hear it clearly from the central reservation. He shook the water from his shoulders; the rain was already seeping through his coat, leaving his skin wet and irritated. A middle-aged woman next to the ticket machine looked at him with pity.

The lights of the tram flickered in the rain, and Craig stepped back as it came to a stop before him. As he climbed on, dropped his hood, and looked around at the empty seats, Craig thumbed his dormant mobile, wondering how much longer he could bear the silence.

IV.

_We can relax on the sofa after dinner, everything dark but the Christmas lights. He’ll lie across the couch, his head in my lap; I’ll sit with my feet up on the coffee table, stroking his hair. He waves the remote at the TV, switching us from channel to channel, then stops at some sappy romantic movie. I tickle under his chin and observe that his taste in films hasn’t improved. Of course, he makes us watch it after that, because he’s just as stubborn as me. He’d have to be stubborn to love me, and I can’t imagine loving anything more than I love him._

* * *

With both of his housemates home with their families, Craig’s flat was dark and scarcely warmer than the street when he returned. He was soaked and chilled to the bone—it had been pouring rain and hailing on the walk from the St. Stephen’s Green tram stop to their front door—yet he was glad for the cold emptiness of the flat, because it meant that he didn’t have to keep up appearances anymore.

Craig turned on the thermostat in the hallway, then placed the takeaway bag on the worktop. He needed a hot shower and his pyjamas before he could eat anything.

_Maybe I should call him._

He rolled his eyes at how ridiculous he was being and closed the bathroom door behind him. Carefully, he placed his mobile on the vanity—checking it for a message from John Paul one more time first—before running the hot water, stripping nude, and stepping under the shower head.

 _He must be finished with Christmas dinner by now,_ Craig thought. Despair was creeping in.

Craig dragged the body wash over his body languorously. He was heartsick, but at least he was warming up quickly. Maybe there’d be something funny on TV that would distract him. If not, he’d just have to wait until his body was too exhausted to let his mind carry on with its King Charles’ head, and he fell asleep.

 _I’m obsessed with another lad._ Craig forced himself to snort, trying to recapture some of his old irreverence. Seventeen-year-old Craig Dean, the boy who’d performed a gay stereotype to get back at Darren after Darlene, would have endlessly taken the piss out of the nineteen-year-old man he’d become. Not just because he’d fallen in love with a bloke, but because he was standing in the shower, crying and sniffling, forlorn, heartbroken, like the plucky protagonist two-thirds of the way through a chick flick.

Craig’s eyes darted to the bathroom sink. Maybe he’d imagined it, but he thought he’d heard the chime of an incoming text. He turned off the tap, stepped onto the bath mat, dried his body, and wrapped his towel around his hips. With each passing second, he was surer and surer that he’d heard something.

_What’s going on? Let me know x_

Craig’s shoulders sagged at the text from Danielle.

“Wait,” Craig murmured. He had another message; he must not have noticed it when he checked earlier. His entire body tingled; he knew this one would be from John Paul.

_Jack’s had a heart attack. He’s fine. Will ring you tomorrow. Mum_

Craig blinked in disbelief, then slicked his hair off his forehead and typed a response.

_What happened? Should I come back? How is he?_

_No, he’s doing well. Stay there. Talk to you tomorrow. I love you._

Craig moved down to Danielle’s name, feeling oddly serene. A dreadful truth had stepped in to save him from his egregious lie; it was almost too pat, as if the universe were teaching him a lesson in honesty. He probably should have felt devastating, illogical, cosmic guilt. The trouble there was that, in the state he was in right now, John Paul took up too much of him; only a quantum of his heart and mind remained for everything else.

_My stepdad had a heart attack. He’s fine. Might still go back. Will let u know._

Craig set his mobile down next to the basin and stared at himself in the foggy mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and despondent. He sniffed, put on his deodorant, and walked to his room to get dressed.

_Omg that’s terrible my parents send their regards if u need to fly back they say they will pay for it. Let me know_

_Will let u know. Tell them I said thanks for the offer. C x_

Craig shoved his phone into the pocket of his cardigan and untied the plastic bag. By now, the food had gone cold, so he plated up portions from the plastic containers and stuck it into the microwave.

“Let’s see what’s on,” Craig said, as he walked to the settee with a can of Guinness. The flat was toasty now; the hum of the microwave promised a delicious dinner to his angry stomach, which was now cramping with hunger. If he could find something good to watch, he might have enough creature comforts to numb the pain.

“ _The Sound of Music_?” Craig shook his head. “Don’t see Debbie and Steph here.”

He took a long drink from the can and reclined back into the cushions. _Love Actually_ was on the next channel; Craig’s only response was to blow a long raspberry and continue up the stations.

“Alright, _Home Alone._ ” Craig laughed at the iron scene as the microwave beeped. On the way to retrieve his plate, he collected a second can from the fridge. He checked his mobile again once he’d returned: nothing new.

 _Maybe his phone got nicked?_ Craig slumped into the arm of the sofa and started eating. _His house did get robbed last year._

The food was steamy and oily and spicy and salty; it was the antithesis of the dainty, upper middle-class dinner served by Danielle’s parents. Craig ate ravenously. When he finished, he belched loudly and got up for another beer.

 _Maybe something’s wrong,_ Craig thought. The can dangled loosely in his hand as he walked back to the couch and traded it for his phone. What if John Paul was lying somewhere out in the cold, hurt or passed out, with no one around to look after him? That sort of thing happened around this time of year: he’d heard stories of people who got bladdered, tripped and fell on the way home, passed out in the snow, died from exposure by the morning. Craig squeezed his head in torment.

_Hiya bro. Did u see John Paul today, by any chance?_

He sent the text to Jake and felt momentarily better. “Pet tarantula saves the day,” Craig commented, starting in on the next beer. He’d spent a month trying to convince his parents to let him get one when he was nine.

_I saw ur bf in the pub earlier w the rest of his lot. Mum called time early and they left._

Craig rolled his eyes.

_Thanks Jake._

_Luv ya bro. Wait, r u 2 back on?_

He hovered over the text, then decided to ignore it. He was sleepy: the massive plate he’d served himself was working its way through his digestive system, and that, combined with the warm flat, the dark lounge, the comfy sofa, the three beers and the emotional strain of the day, meant that he’d be nodding off any minute. Wherever John Paul was, whatever he was doing—Craig was too far away to do anything for him. Besides, he had a huge family. They could take care of him.

_He’s just blanking me._

Now that he was drifting into sleep, he didn’t have the willpower to keep the truth from himself. It was obvious at this point, wasn’t it? John Paul didn’t want to know; unlike Craig, he’d moved on. He’d tried to move on with his life several times, even whilst they were still seeing each other. Craig had been the one chasing after him, apologising, prising John Paul’s heart open again and again. After three months, John Paul probably thought himself well rid of him.

“John Paul,” Craig whispered, closer now to slumber than consciousness. A tear rolled down his cheek and into the fabric of the settee as Kevin and his family were reunited on Christmas morning.

V.

_He falls asleep in front of the television. So do I, but I wake up first. It’s sometime after midnight, and the earlier movie is over, replaced with another crowd pleaser. I click the television off and rub the centre of his chest; he stirs and stumbles up with me. We shuffle past the sofa and he turns off the Christmas tree along the way. I stop at the glass door to the balcony and point to the snow that’s drifting down in the beams of the streetlights. He wraps his arms around me and kisses my neck, and for a while, until we continue on to bed, there’s only the heat of his body, the rhythm of his breathing, the snow falling soundlessly to the earth._

* * *

He had three dreams of John Paul.

In the first, he was a candle on Craig’s shoulder, guiding him through the gloom of a snow-covered city without lights. Everything was hushed and aphotic, like in a survival horror game, and the only light and heat in the world radiated off of John Paul. They walked the pavements together, bantering, flirting, and it was like nothing had happened at all since the halcyon days of midsummer, when Craig had told him he loved him and that had been enough. This one was Craig’s favourite dream of the three because it was just the two of them, free, complete, together at the end of the world.

That one dissolved into the second dream when, as they walked through St. Stephen’s Green, John Paul was all of a sudden back to his human form—more or less; human by dream standards, anyway—and they were returned to Craig’s flat before he could bat an eyelid, to Craig’s bed. Perhaps, on second thoughts, it was _their_ bed: they were tangled up recklessly, all wrinkled sheets and tensed limbs, their bodies moving in seamless unison, no daylight between them (inexplicably, the sun had returned). Craig liked this dream as well, and he felt the euphoria of release, febrile and wet, near the end of it, but something was missing. As his bedroom fell away and he was transported again, he realised that it was the lack of sound that had unsettled him: John Paul had been mute throughout. No words; not even a guttural groan.

The third was more concrete. Craig felt his body distinctly, felt his toes sweating in his socks and his heels protesting in his stiff, black leather shoes. He looked around for John Paul and found Jake.

 _Mate_ , Jake said, and they hugged. _It’s such a shock._

Craig glanced around the room from Jake’s shoulder. His entire family was with them, sitting in a single pew. Further back, familiar faces from home popped up here and there, their expressions grim and distant. Everyone was clad in black.

 _Bro_ , Craig heard himself say. _What’s happening?_

Jake released him wordlessly, and then he was in his mother’s arms as she cried.

 _Jack_ , Craig thought. _Jack’s dead._

He couldn’t cry—they all knew, surely, about his lies, his guilt. Any tears from him would be salt in the wound.

 _I’m sorry, mum_ , Craig said. He rubbed her back.

She clasped him tight; her fingers dug into his shoulders.

_No, I’m sorry, Craig. I’m sorry for everything._

He didn’t know what she meant, but before he could ask her, the pallbearers entered the church. As they brought the coffin closer to the chancel, Craig frowned. They were all women.

 _Mum_ , Craig said, bewildered. _Why aren’t we doing it?_

As the procession passed his pew, Craig realised who they were. He sprang up, feeling pure terror coursing through his bloodstream.

 _Craig_ , Jack said evenly, from right behind him. _Craig, sit down, son._

Craig shook off his hand and ran to the cortege. The McQueens turned to stare at him, their eyes blank.

 _Who—_ Craig looked from one to the other.

He already knew.

Craig screamed and pushed them away. The coffin tumbled to the church floor with a deafening crack. His family ran over and tugged at him, trying to pull him up, away, back to the pew.

His hand slowly, tortuously, sliding up the lid of the coffin, too much of a coward to throw it open—that was the last image of his third dream.

“John Paul,” he moaned, and opened his eyes to the darkness. “John Paul—where—”

Craig blinked, his pupils focusing on the faint light of the television. _Home Alone_ was long over, replaced by _Ghost_. The first verse of “Unchained Melody” filtered out through the stagnant, too-hot air of the lounge.

He sat up and rubbed his face groggily, trying to process everything. After a few shallow breaths, he picked up his phone and made his way to John Paul’s name in his text history. It was two minutes to midnight.

_Lonely rivers flow to the sea—_

“This isn’t even a Christmas movie,” Craig complained. The music swelled regardless.

He dragged himself up, knocking over an empty can as his leg hit the table. There was no way he’d send another text now—or worse, call. Just before midnight, on Christmas Day? Desperate, and more than a little creepy.

_I’ve hungered for your touch—_

Craig looked down at the wet patch in his pyjamas. He was probably both of those things anyway.

_And time goes by so slowly—_

His phone vibrated. It was 11:59.

_Merry Christmas. I miss you too, Craig. Hope you’re doing well there. Maybe I’ll come over one day. X_

Craig read the text over and over as the song crashed into him.

_Are you still mine?_

It was midnight now; Christmas was over. Craig shuffled to the remote and clicked off the TV. The empty flat fell silent.

John Paul was safe, wherever he was—in the bed which Craig knew so well, most likely. About to fall asleep, warm under the covers, thinking about Craig at the same time as Craig was thinking about him.

Craig walked to the door to the balcony and peered through the curtains. The driving rain and hail from before had turned into gentle snow that coated the tops of the lampposts, the boughs of hibernating trees, the roofs of sleeping cars. He smiled and pressed his hand to the glass.

“John Paul,” Craig said, and the catharsis was as exquisite as the pain. He felt surrounded by the ghosts of Christmas present—of what he and John Paul could have had, if things had been just a tiny bit different.

What they would have one day, Craig vowed.

He wiped away his tears and watched the snow fall.


End file.
